


BFOTY

by jamarillo



Category: GOT7, JJ Project
Genre: Journalist!Jaebum, M/M, Multi, idol!jinyoung, tags to be added!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-13 11:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20581763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamarillo/pseuds/jamarillo
Summary: Jaebum is a reporter that gets assigned to cover Jinyoung's solo debut, and finds a lot more than a cover story.





	BFOTY

Jinyoung tosses Jaebum’s phone into the hallway of the apartment, then his clothes. Jaebum stumbles around, tugging on his underwear, plucking his shirt and jeans from the carpet. He wants to head back into the room for his hat but Jinyoung’s naked frame stands at the door. Despite Jinyoung’s shouts, despite the angry red of his cheeks, his frame looks small.

“Get out!” Jinyoung’s voice has already broken so many times that he sounds hoarse from screaming and Jaebum knows he won’t be able to perform tomorrow.

“Jinyoung,” Jaebum pleads, but Jinyoung is pushing him out again, down the hallway, into the living room, towards the front door. He shoves him with fists that don't hurt, simply fill him with guilt. 

“I don’t ever want to see you again.”

His words come softer this time, though Jaebum realizes it’s only because he’s busy wiping away his tears, and whatever he says after gets tangled with the sobs that rise up to his chest. His words come out like water, unintelligible, spilling over his lips to puddle in the carpet between his feet.

From the door, Jaebum can only make out a few words, ripped and crumpled like paper, but it’s enough to feel his own heart start to break.

“You said you loved me.”

\--

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER:

He finds the assignment on his desk, wrapped in a manila folder held together by rubber bands, two paper clips, and a single post-it note that reads, in red: “Jaebum’s new assignment!”

Jaebum stands next to the desk, unsure of how to take it. He should throw a fit, he thinks, and flip his desk over, throw his computer across the room, yell and shout and grab scissors and cut up every curtain, ruin every blind. He should spill coffee on someone, should yell at the secretary, should even quit, too, but as a writer, he doesn’t have the privilege. He has a desk, he has an old backpack slung across his shoulder. He has an ancient laptop that he slips out of the bag and places it on the desk neatly, careful that the folder and the computer don’t touch.

He has a chair that used to recline, but now only swivels as he sits in it and turns around. At the edge of the room, the one all the writers have to share, Jaebum has claimed the small desk in the corner and Youngjae, his only friend as of late, has claimed the one next to him.

But Youngjae isn’t facing him, not even slightly. He’s typing away on his computer, dressed nicely, even on days like these where there’s no opera or musical to report on. Even on days like these when he would be turned around, talking to Jaebum, sharing ideas and news and anything else they might enjoy. But he isn’t, and Jaebum knows why.

“They gave me the assignment.”

Youngjae doesn’t flinch, but Jaebum can see where his shoulders stiffen. Still, he doesn’t turn, only hums.

“Which assignment?”

And they both know Youngjae knows exactly which assignment -- not only does “the assignment” refer to a single piece, but Youngjae is always the first writer to arrive, the last to leave. He would have known before anyone that Jaebum had been assigned the profile; he would have even seen Taecyeon’s assistant wading through the room, looking over each desk until she found Jaebum’s.

“Don’t be a dick, Youngjae, you know which one -- the idol profile.”

Youngjae tenses even further, and now he turns, his simple face twisted with fear.

“It’s not so bad, Jaebum -- you get a bonus! They pay you more and --”

“I don’t care.”

Now it’s Jaebum’s turn to swivel back and give his back to Youngjae. It’s his turn to stare at his computer, but he doesn’t type, he doesn’t open an article. Instead, he stares at the manila folder and the thick wad of papers wedged inside. He stares and wonders what he would do if he just quit right there -- if he moved from one magazine to another, just like that. But the chances, he knows, are slim. So he does the next best thing.

One hundred steps from his desk is Taecyeon’s office and Jaebum doesn’t bother to knock. He wants to surprise him, to catch him on a phone call, watching something he shouldn’t, maybe even kissing the secretary but even when he swings the door open and lets it clatter against the wall, Taecyeon doesn’t look up.

“Hey, what the fuck is --”

“I don’t care.” Taecyeon lifts a hand, waves him off, but Jaebum remains planted.

“I don’t want to do the profile --”

“Too bad.”

“Taecyeon, I don’t think you’re listening to me. I’m not doing the fucking profile.”

This is when Taecyeon lifts his head.

“Sure, sure, by all means don’t do the assignment. Don’t get paid. Get fired. How many magazines are lined up to hire you, huh? How many overstaffed little buildings are gonna be jumping at the chance to add you to the team? Please, enlighten me.”

Jaebum’s jaw tenses, his chin sticks out, but he says nothing for a moment.

“You said I wouldn’t have to do these anymore.”

“No, what I said is if you do well on the next few assignments, I would put you on album reviews for good. But I need this one to be done, and I need it to be done well.” Taecyeon stops talking, takes off his glasses and sighs. He runs his fingers over his face and Jaebum almost feels guilty. “Close the door for a second.”

Jaebum does as told, pauses before he turns to Taecyeon -- doesn’t want to see his face, not yet.

And, just as he’d imagined, Taecyeon is looking tired and weary, leaning back, crossing his arms.

“I just need this last one.”

“We agreed no more.”

“It’s a good assignment -- you get a bonus.”

“Then why did everyone abandon it?”

Taecyeon sighs again, shakes his head, even shrugs, a string of theatrics that Jaebum watches with dead eyes. He’s known Taecyeon for so long -- other reporters fear him, but Jaebum sees him as an uncle; someone he knows; someone he trusts -- until now.

“I need it to be written well, Jaebum, and if you might have to write something their PR people say to write -- that’s the business, that’s life. Money talks, and sometimes you have to suck it up.”

Jaebum’s jaw tenses again, but the anger is gone.

“But my name won’t be run with it.”

“Sure, it’ll be anonymous,” Taecyeon throws his hands up, “Just do it, please. You owe me a few, Jaebum.”

“Now I owe you one less,” Jaebum says, because he is keeping score. He’s always keeping score. He opens the door and leaves, tries not to feel good at the way Taecyeon smiles -- suddenly relieved.

-

On their way to the location, Jaebum reads up on the file.

The assignment follows Park Jinyoung, known as BFOTY on stage, as he prepares for his solo debut. It’s mostly a PR piece meant to build up some hype, to give Jinyoung some industry credibility. After all, he’d come from Dune. 

Dune had begun as a duo, making waves in the hip-hop underground. Jackson Wang had been the original leader, the one accessible to the crowds -- he was hypnotic on the stage. He could rap about cereal and people would eat it up, hungry for his attention, anticipating what he could do next. Jackson climbed on ceilings, jumped into crowds, did flips, danced, did everything he possibly could on stage without ever hitting a note. And he did these things well, so well that nobody could ignore him; no one could deny his talent. 

And by his side had been Hyeri, a force of her own. Her presence was quieter, though no less potent. Jackson would draw people in, get their hearts racing, and Hyeri would make sure they stayed; she anchored them; shocked them, even. She had as much talent and skill as Jackson, but people didn’t know what to make of her rapping about about men and money while wearing her high school uniform, even if she’d graduated years before. 

Jaebum remembers her the most -- he was there, in the audience, early on. He could trace the audience’s reactions; mostly shock at first, trying to place Hyeri, enraptured when they were unable to. Like Jackson, she was enigmatic, building verses just to break them -- letting the audience get comfortable just to surprise them. Their performances were like hooks and jabs and everyone was always left floored and exhausted.

But talent and homemade beats could only take them so far. When they peaked in the underground, they sought to go mainstream. They hooked up with a producer, added another member: an actor and dancer just fresh out of high school.

This is where Jaebum lost interest in them -- this is when they sold out. Their new image required stage names and flashy music videos, still indie, still out of the norm, but fabricated at this point. He remembers the first few singles: a mixture of sensual punches and tough attitudes without the grit. They struggled then, too, until they went viral.

The song Body Rock had been the usual Dune formula: Jackson and Nayeon tag teaming on verses while an auto-tuned Jinyoung carried the chorus, made it sultry, added that mainstream element. The video, though, became infamous. It looked like a video taken on a personal webcam -- a phone transmission. It only featuread one member, Jinyoung, as he lip synced the entire song, trotting around in front of the camera, singing to the viewer. It started in his bedroom and Jinyoung pranced around in his pajamas, then undressed as the song went on, stripped and took the camera into his bathroom, then the hallway, then the kitchen, each time losing an article of clothing.

It ended with him in underwear crawling across a table towards the camera, shot with such care that it looked leaked; like the entire thing had been intended for a lover. And people went wild for this intimacy -- this voyeuristic fantasy, felt the pleasure of catching someone in their most private moments while also envious of who this was sent to. People imagined it was made for them, that Jinyoung was singing to them.

Some were repulsed, some turned on, some both, but by the time, in the last frame, that a sweaty Jinyoung raised his underwear to the camera, leaving the rest to imagination, the song was forever engraved in their head. It was catchy, yes, less vibrant than their usual work, but it was enough. The views rose, the song played over and over until it became a guilty pleasure. By the time the song hit the top of the charts, though, people were less enraged over the video, more enraptured by the song.

When the next album came around, Jinyoung had become the symbol of Dune -- perhaps not the sound, but the avatar. The album cover featured him in black and white, cut out like a magazine, his tongue out, his hair spiked up, pressed against a flat red color. It debuted at #1.

They built a following, they rose to prominence, and their third album was an even bigger success, but then they disappeared. Or gave the appearance of disappearing. Suddenly there were no performances, no sightings. People were curious, but didn’t wonder. They thought the group had been a shooting star.

That had been a year ago -- but the group hadn’t disappeared. Nayeon had. Jackson released a solo album, a dark little number just alternative enough to have its turn with the critics. And now, two years after their group effort, Jinyoung’s solo was being teased.

It’s not that he hates Jinyoung, but he hates his position in the industry -- Jackson and Nayeon had star potential, too, but it had been Jinyoung that stole the spotlight. Someone who hadn’t been a musician in the first place; not a songwriter; not an artist, just an actor playing a role.

He flips through the rest of the pages, reads the previous notes. Three writers had quit on the assignment, citing creative differences, but Taecyeon hadn’t bothered to edit out their notes. They all complained about Bambam, Jinyoung’s manager, micromanaging their pieces.

Jaebum sighs, puts the folder away, crosses his arms and looks out the window.

“I can’t believe we get to meet a member of Dune,” Youngjae says from the other seat, “Remember Jackson’s album?”

Jaebum nods, but he doesn’t turn. He’d brought Youngjae along to take pictures, and as a form of punishment for not warning him, but he hadn’t expected Youngjae to be excited. Jaebum just sighs again, closes his eyes, and naps until they arrive.

-

Youngjae stirs him awake.

“We’re here,” he whispers, then pays the cab driver, and Jaebum lets his limbs move automatically. He opens the car door and steps outside and squints at how bright the world has become at noon. He walks to the front of the studio, looks up at the sign.

“Is this the right place?”

“Yeah,” Youngjae says, “We’re late -- we should go inside.”

“I’ll meet you inside. Start taking pictures, I’m going to smoke for a bit.”

He looks at Youngjae, the nervous glint in his eyes. Youngjae, always the one to worry for both of them -- clocking in for Jaebum at their old jobs, reminding him of assignments, finding their apartment to live, taking care of organizing everything. Sometimes, like now as Youngjae nods and fingers his camera and heads inside the building, Jaebum is reminded about how much he owes Youngjae -- more than Taecyeon, more than anyone. And sometimes he’s struck by how little he does for Youngjae, how puny his effort. How pathetic, really.

This is a bad day, he decides, finds a spot of shade near the building, under a tiny tree. There he stands and pulls out a cigarette and does his smoking with little love -- feels his nerves start to unwind. Then he sees him.

By the building, around the corner, looking cartoonish as he sneaks around to the front door, a man in black with a face mask and a beanie and too much clothes for the weather. He’s carrying something, but Jaebum can’t tell what it is until he takes a few steps back and raises his hand and aims.

Something in Jaebum awakens -- something like deja vu. He’s lived through this before, he thinks, and has made the mistake of standing by, being silent. He tosses his cigarette aside and yells, “Hey -- stop that!”

Before the stranger can shatter the windows with a rock, he turns, and Jaebum catches sight of those wide, scared eyes. It’s the only thing he manages to see before the stranger drops the rock and starts to run in the direction he came in, dipping into an alley.

Jaebum takes two steps forward, but doesn’t bother to chase him. Instead, he shakes his head and pulls out another cigarette and finishes his alone time before heading inside.

-

Just as he’d been told, Youngjae is inside taking pictures, though he looks silly and out of place with his camera pointed at another man with a camera, all lens pointed at Jinyoung.

Spotting Jinyoung -- even at a distance -- makes Jaebum uneasy. He’d seen him once before, in concert, from far away; but still, it had been enough to build a sense of disinterest. But now, Jinyoung looks different; he’s bulked up; he’s lit up in spotlights, glowing under them, drinking in all the light -- tan and golden and surreal. These are supposed to be the pictures for the inner jacket of the album and it’s clear that the sex-icon imagery continues, is expanded upon.

Jinyoung is wearing a black, silk robe that hangs loosely off his shoulders, black briefs and nothing else. He’s straddling a rocket against a green background, nothing making sense, everything out of place. Jaebum feels nervous; suddenly hot, like the sun outside had somehow sneaked into the dark room, resting on his shoulders.

He stands there, behind everyone, watching the action unfold until someone shouts a command and the photographer stops; the lights around them turn on. The room enters a half-lit daze, still feels like a dream. Jinyoung disembarks from the rocket and heads his way.

Jaebum panics for a moment, the feeling of nerves condensing but Jinyoung doesn’t walk towards him; he detours, stops instead in front of Youngjae.

“You must be Jaebum,” Jinyoung says, and Youngjae shakes his head. He lets the camera hang from his neck, bows his head a little -- always shy, nervous, preferring the music over the stars. Jinyoung smiles, maybe finds it charming, Jaebum isn’t sure. He steps closer.

“No -- I’m just taking pictures for him.”

“Then where’s Jaebum?” he asks and that’s when Jaebum finally approaches, lifts his hand.

“That’s me.”

Jinyoung’s eyes fall on him, and to Jaebum’s surprise, the nerves don’t escalate; his heart doesn’t race; he feels calm, as if the room has cooled by degrees. Jinyoung’s eyes lose the appreciation -- he doesn’t think Jaebum is cute, but some sort of adoration is there; Jaebum can read him, and it’s this ability that makes him confident, that makes his movements sturdy again. He reaches out a hand, offers it.

“Nice to meet you,” he says and Jinyoung takes his hand, shakes it. Their gazes never untangle, give Jaebum the space to study Jinyoung’s: the dreamy gaze, somewhere between here and there, and the standard way in which he tries to play it off. But Jaebum has always been focused on details -- he can tell that thoughts are running through his head, but that’s where his investigation ends. He’s afraid to know more.

Jaebum pulls his hand away and Jinyoung’s hand lingers in the air, then falls to his side.

“We should exchange numbers,” Jinyoung says.

He panics, but only internally; he knows how to move slow; how to feign confidence. This catches him off guard, but he isn’t sure why.

“Numbers?” he asks.

“Yeah, you know -- since you’re writing the piece. If you ever have to get in touch with me,” he ends his words with a smile that makes Jaebum’s heart skip a beat -- if Jaebum has control over his body, then Jinyoung is a master of his. The tilt of his head, that little smile, both innocent and suggestive and pitying -- there’s precision in all he does, in the way he looks up, too, and lets his skin drink in all the light in the room. Even in this dark space, in this shadow, away from the spotlight, Jinyoung manages to glow.

He has a hard time looking away and pulling out his phone. He tries to ignore the way his nerves tingle when he hands Jinyoung his phone, their fingers touching. It almost feels like a stage-- the low lit room, the half-nude Jinyoung, the slender fingers slipping across the screen of his phone. And, as if on cue, a loud, shrill voice breaks the atmosphere. Shatters the glass.

“You’re the new writer!”

Jinyoung hands Jaebum back the phone, and though he wants to keep looking at Jinyoung, the voice pulls him away. A young man approaches with red hair and sunglasses on, his body thin, his presence large. He’s grinning as another boy follows behind him, notepad in hand.

Jaebum nods, then glimpses at Jinyoung who just smiles, almost embarrassed. All the control from before seems to slip away, moving to the side -- not gone, but not present any longer. No longer a tool. Then they both look to the approaching figure.

“I’m Bambam, the manager,” he says once he’s close, lowers his sunglasses with his fingers and Jaebum catches the sight of colored contacts, “You’re Jaebum -- I looked into you. Good stuff -- I’m expecting a good article, with all types of nice things about Jinyoungie over here.”

Bambam walks over to Jinyoung, throws his arm over his shoulder, grinning while Jinyoung smiles shyly and Jaebum is struck at the difference between them -- Bambam is studded and dressed in gold, glimmers quietly, and Jinyoung looks plain. For once since Jaebum has entered the room, he looks accessible, normal, still handsome but toned down. Now, Jaebum notices the ears, the thick chin -- features that, on Jinyoung, still manage to look lovely and churn his stomach.

“I’ll do what I can,” he says, then turns to Youngjae, “Did you get some pictures?”

Youngjae answers, but Jaebum only sees the shape of his lips -- the way his mouth moves against each word. The room, instead, goes silent, and he's only aware of this distant murmur; almost like a hum. They've fallen into casual chatter and, a few steps from them, Jinyoung and Bambam engage in something similar.

The buzzing goes on, even when his own lips part, when he speaks, too, but he can't make sense of those words either. It's like his head has filled with bees that squirm and flutter and spit out honey, honey that tastes sweet, honey that fills the beehive of his mind with something other than conversations. He's afraid to look over at Jinyoung, not afraid of what he might find but afraid of how he'll react -- he's drunk on him, and with such a short notice.

But if Jaebum is good at one thing, it's at repressing. He needs only to bite the inside of his cheek, which he does, and that little sting is enough to reel him back in. The room returns, his body returns, the bees in his head disperse and he's left with an empty nest.

"I think you can just take my camera next time," Youngjae says, "Until a performance or something -- I won't need it."

Jaebum nods, notices his jaw is tight and pushed forward. He relaxes it, as if it were the most casual thing.

Then someone takes his arm and he turns to find Jinyoung smiling at him, tries not to look at the slender fingers touching his bicep, not in a caress or anything intimate, just a simple touch -- almost an accidental brush -- that still manages to feel private, meant only for him.

"We're leaving -- we'll be in the studio tomorrow, I'll text you the address," Jinyoung says, then pulls away his hand, uses it to wave, but the touch remains. Something warm, fiddling with his skin.

It remains even after the studio empties out and Youngjae and Jaebum catch a taxi home. It remains even after he's buckled into his seat, even as he stretches, keeps moving, unable to find comfort in the seat. Remains even as Youngjae fills the backseat with his voice, excited, mesmerized.

"I can't believe we got to meet him -- remember when we saw Dune perform? When we were in college?"

Jaebum just nods, tries not to look tense as Youngjae rattles off the experience. They'd been young, not even close to the stage, but it was a small venue; they were smaller themselves, broke and dreamers, unaware of the space they could take up. They had been there for Jackson, mostly, but Jinyoung had been there, too. It had been a good show -- Youngjae wrote about it for the school paper -- but it hadn't left an impact. It didn't last. Their lives were too busy, then, and Jaebum had no time to be awed.

But today he does. Even when they arrive to their apartment and eat some leftovers, even after Jaebum showers, slips into his room and locks the door, he can still feel Jinyoung's fingers lingering like a sunburn.

He tries to relax, lays over his mattress, checks his phone for anything important but there's nothing there -- there's never anything there. He pulls out his laptop from his bag, tries to unwind after a long day.

Jaebum puts in headphones and opens a new tab, types in the familiar site. He pulls down the waistband of his sweats, then his underwear, and pauses when Youngjae knocks on his door. After that doesn't work, he tries to open the door, calls Jaebum's name, then sighs and leaves and Jaebum can continue.

The videos are always the same -- he picks whatever's popular -- and it takes a few seconds for him to reach down, start stroking himself. He hardens in a few strokes, but can't seem to find pleasure; it feels automatic; robotic. He clicks out of the video, tries four more, but nothing satisfies him.

Then his phone vibrates. With a sigh, he reaches over, checks the text. An unknown number sends an address, a location pin, then a short message:

_ See you tomorrow! _

Then three smiling, blushing emoji in a row. He thinks to save the number, but decides to do it later because his arm starts to warm again. Because he feels Jinyoung's fingers. He clicks open a video, tries to distract himself, but the sensation is there, expanded by imagination. It's no longer Jinyoung's fingers on his arm, but his entire hand, his palm sliding up and down his arm, and he can't help but picture Jinyoung there, in his room, laying down next to him, encouraging him. Egging him on. His voice in his ears, his hand on his chest.

Jaebum tries another video, but the sensation is the same -- that of being watched, of being directed. And instead of strangers fucking on the site, he sees Jinyoung in glimpses -- wonders what he would look like at that angle, what kind of face he would make. It's not the first time he's wanted to fuck someone but it's the first time he's wanted to do it so badly, and it's the first time he's ever wanted to suppress it, to forget about it. Something about Jinyoung scares him, haunts him even now; Jinyoung fills his entire head; infiltrates every crevice; a complete seduction, all from a glance, all from a touch. This is dangerous, he thinks, but not in those words -- it's more of a feeling: his gut telling him to run, to get off the assignment.

But his cock says something different, and soon he's stroking, even when the video is paused; his mind fills in the gaps. Jinyoung isn't just touching his arm, isn't next to him, but between his thighs, rubbing them, his eyes wide, watching Jaebum's hand pump his cock. He's watching, waiting, his lips parted.

His stomach tightens, his thighs tense, but then Jaebum stops.

He sighs, looks back at his screen, opens a new tab and searches for Dune. The video isn't hard to find -- Jinyoung, looking slimmer, prancing around naked to their song. He mutes it and watches it for a second, strokes himself slower, speeds up as Jinyoung takes off another article of clothing.

He mutes it so that the only thing he hears when he cums is his own breaths mixed with the imaginary Jinyoung's.

Then he falls from the high, his heart pounding in his ears, against his chest, and notices he's begun to sweat, how warm and stuffy the room is, how hot his cum against his fingers. He looks around, his breaths shallow, and realizes he's fucked. So, so fucked.

  
  



End file.
